


to learn to swim (grief is like the ocean)

by lostinanotherworld24



Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Minor Character Death, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:35:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24882403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostinanotherworld24/pseuds/lostinanotherworld24
Summary: An unexpected call tears apart Clay's world, and leaves him fumbling in ways he never would've expected.
Relationships: Ash Spenser & Clay Spenser, Clay Spenser & Bravo Team
Comments: 10
Kudos: 102





	to learn to swim (grief is like the ocean)

**Author's Note:**

> Please note, this story does have heavy themes of grief/mourning and loss. Be mindful before reading. 
> 
> Also, warning for somewhat explicit mentions of morgues/autopsies, and hospitals. 
> 
> title is from a quote by vicki harrison

Hot, stagnant air smacks Clay in the face as he steps out of his car, soaking his threadbare t-shirt with sweat. He makes a face at the sensation and lightly tugs at the shirt to alleviate the feeling. Predictably, it does absolutely no good, and he resigns himself to the discomfort. With thoughts of air-conditioning and a cold shower pushing him forward, he grabs his bags out of the trunk and heads for his apartment building for the first time in months. 

This latest deployment hadn't been too bad, relatively speaking. Bravo even managed to skate by with minimal injuries; only Brock and Sonny had sustained minor wounds. They counted themselves lucky, but couldn't deny they were excited to be home. Clay feels himself relax for the first time in months as he walks into a wall of cool air upon opening the door to his apartment. By the couch, he drops his bags and makes a beeline for the shower, relishing finally ridding himself of sand, dirt, and sweat. 

A half-hour later, he comes back out to drag his bags into the bedroom. He's just beginning to dump clothes into his hamper when his phone lights up, an unknown number flashing across the screen. With a roll of his eyes, he answers; he's  _ not _ in the mood to deal with a telemarketer or a fucking scammer. 

_ "Hello. Is there a Petty Officer Spenser I could speak with?"  _ A woman speaks as soon as he picks up, voice carefully neutral. 

"Yes, this is he. May I ask who is calling?" His stomach drops without warning, because he has the creeping sensation he's about to get awful news. 

_ "My name is Linda Johnson, and I'm calling from Sentara Virginia Beach General Hospital. I'm sorry to have to inform you of this, but your father, Ashland Spenser, was admitted a little over two hours ago. He suffered a massive heart attack, and we weren't able to revive him. He was pronounced dead a half-hour ago. I'm so sorry for your loss."  _

__ The entire world stills for one long, horrible moment. His mouth gapes open, and it's all he can do to keep hold of the phone. Shock weakens his knees, and he stumbles back and collapses onto his bed. With a shaking hand, he rips his fingers through his hair, before clenching on and leaning forward. 

"What do...what do I need to do now?" 

_ "When you're ready, we'd like you to come down to the morgue and identify the body. Then, it would be best if you contacted any family or friends your father might have had, and let them know. After that, you will want to contact his lawyer, see if he had a will to be executed. That might be able to give you some details on funeral arrangements: his preferred funeral home if he wanted cremation or burial, that sort of thing. We have patient advocates here who would be able to assist you with this, should you need it, Would you like to take down the number?"  _

__ Through a mouth as dry as the Sahara Desert, he manages to assure her that won't be necessary before he hangs up rather abruptly. He lets the phone slip out of his fingers and onto the beige carpet before he leans forward and rests his head in his hands. For a long moment, he's frozen, struggling against the tears burning in his eyes. He wants to cry, but won't let himself, because Ash had hated seeing him cry. 

Somehow he dresses; tugs on fresh jeans and a shirt, and a pair of ratty flip-flops because they were the first things he saw. He barely remembers to grab his wallet and keys before leaving and has to go back to get his phone. Everything feels like it's happening in slow-motion like he's moving through molasses. He's nearly in his car before he makes the decision not to drive because at the rate he's going, he'd cause an accident, and then there'd be two bodies to bury. 

The cabbie attempts to make light conversation but gleans after a moment of awkward silence that now's really not the time. Later, Clay might be thankful he doesn't take offense to Clay's deadened stare and instead simply cranks up the radio, but right now, his mind is whirling too much to process even that much. He's not been this disoriented since Adam's passing, and experiencing it again reminds him how much it fucking sucks.

High into the sky, the hospital looms, and Clay hesitates for a moment outside the automatic doors. A woman nearly bumps into him, and shoots him a dirty look, reminding him that just because his world's stopped doesn't mean it has for others. He forces himself to walk through the doors; to ask at reception for directions to the morgue; to shake hands with the M.E., even though his only desire is to lay down in a dark hole somewhere and forget how much this hurts.

The morgue is a sterile gray and white, a bite to the air nipping at his exposed skin. Clay frowns and rubs his hands over his arms, wondering why it's so goddamn cold before his brain catches up.

_ Oh. It's because of the dead bodies. _

__ Even the M.E. seems inhuman, all distinguishable features hidden behind his blue face-mask. There's a sympathy burning in his eyes that Clay can't bear to look at as he explains the process of releasing his father's remains to the funeral home, the papers he needs to sign, and the people he needs to talk to. In a gentle voice that makes Clay want to hit him, he explains that since his father died from cardiac arrest, there's really no need to perform an autopsy,  _ unless you'd like one, Mr.Spenser?  _

__ Clay imagines his father's insides being bared to the world, the lungs that had spewed ugly words and the heart he'd never been entirely sure his father possessed exposed for all to see, and the thought is so nauseating he nearly pukes. With a firm shake of his head, he puts that idea to rest and signs the papers without really reading them. He keeps it together until he's led over to a locked door in the wall bearing the number 442, and until the grey metal slab is pulled from the wall, a white sheet over a still form. 

Then, nothing. 

Every bit of himself has quietly shut down as the sheet is folded to the waist of the person lying there, as Clay numbly stares at the body of the man he'd adored and despised in equal amounts. Ash's eyes are closed, and for a second, Clay desperately longs for him to open them again and sit up, to ask why Clay stares at him like that. He nods once, jerkily, before he turns and flees from the room that he's never been in before and never wants to be in again. 

Heat and humidity hit him with all the force of a thousand bricks as he steps outside again, and he's pulled up the number for the cab service before he realizes he doesn't really want to go home. He considers calling one of his teammates, but even the thought of telling anyone wants to make him throw up; if he says the words then he has to endure their sympathy, watch as their world shifts to accommodate this new knowledge, and he doesn't think he can handle that right now. 

Instead, he walks along the cracked and buckled sidewalks, past quiet houses and busy intersections. He thinks about everything and nothing, thoughts slipping through like water before he can catch them. He thinks about how it felt to wake up that first day and realize that Brian was dead; the way it felt to turn and realize that Adam had martyred himself so Clay might live. His heart feels too small, and he can't breathe, and he doesn't even realize where his feet were leading him until he's already there. 

The bar is the same as it's always been, from the first time he ever went out with the guys to the last time he visited, when he nearly beat the shit of the guy in the parking lot because of mistaken identity. It even smells the same as he pushes through the glass doors, and picks a seat in the far corner, away from the entire world. He's not sure what he's hiding from, he just knows he's not up to doing more than letting his instincts lead. And this is what they say is right. 

The bartender isn't one he knows but thankfully is too busy to try and make conversation, like asking why he's already had five fingers of whiskey and is requesting a sixth. There are five people in the world right now who could demand that sort of information from him, and this too-young bartender with a shitty haircut is  _ not  _ one of them. If he tried to pry, Clay might actually break his jaw. 

Hours pass in a sort of haze, the only real thing the burn of the alcohol as it slides down his throat until suddenly there's a hand on his shoulder. Jason's standing behind him in a shirt and basketball shorts, a ball cap pulled low over his eyes. Clay's eyes widen comically because they weren't supposed to know yet, he's not ready to tell them, how could he ever explain- 

He must make some sort of noise or whimper because Jason shushes him softly and helps him stand up, guides him from the nearly-empty bar out to his truck. Clay practically collapses onto the smooth leather and leans his face against the window, the coolness of it easing the burn in his cheeks. He's not a child to be coddled and fussed over, and yet he can't deny how  _ fucking good  _ it feels to let someone else have the reins. To just let himself not be in control, because he's too far gone from his own mind to even attempt something like having his shit together. 

At least, for right now. 

Jason grasps his shoulder with a squeeze, and leads him into his house, navigating him past chairs and around tables until they're down a tiny hallway and into Emma's room. Through blurry eyes, Clay recognizes the white desk and pink bedspread from the first time he'd come and gotten the tour. Jason strips him of his shoes and jeans, before rolling him onto his side and lifting his legs so the blanket can be pulled over. With another gentle pat on his shoulder, Jason leaves him, cracking the door partway. Clay burrows into the sheets and shuts his eyes, falling into a restless sleep a nanosecond later. 

XXXX 

The next morning, he awakens to the sound of rain pattering against the window, and squints his eyes open to confirm his suspicions. For a second, he panics because he doesn't recognize the room he's in before the knowledge hits him like a freight train. The same dull heaviness that he'd worn like a second skin yesterday settles over him, and he has to blink back the tears itching at his bloodshot eyes. A therapist might say it's not healthy, but he could give a fuck right now.

Jason has coffee burbling and eggs frying when Clay finally stumbles into the kitchen, a towel thrown over his shoulder. He turns to observe Clay, before jerking his chin at the bottle of ibuprofen waiting on the counter. Clay shakes out four, and dry swallows them, shoving past the rock-stuck feeling they leave in his throat. He sits down at the dining room table and scrubs a hand through his hair. 

A minute later, Jason sets down a plate loaded with eggs and toast in front of him, a steaming mug of coffee joining it. Clay shoots him a weak smile of thanks, before picking up a slice of toast and tearing off small bits. It all tastes like wood chips and sandpaper; Jason could've served him a veggie MRE, and it would've felt the same. He forces himself to eat anyways, knowing that he's already gone too long without substance, unable to even remember when his last meal was. 

"Clay, what  _ happened _ ?" Jason asks after a moment of silence when he decides Clay's alert enough to handle it. 

"Ash. He, um, had a heart attack yesterday. He didn't make it," Clay informs him in a voice that so desperately wants to be clinical and disconnected, but can't help but hold a wavering note of sorrow. Maybe it's the residual effects of the alcohol, or perhaps it's the grief finally coming to swallow him whole, but he shoves his face into his hands and sobs until he feels like he'll never cry again. Jason just holds him without saying anything, and Clay's not sure he's ever loved him more.

XXXX 

The team finally slinks over at noon, and it's obvious they know what's happened, their awkward hesitation at the doorway saying everything their mouths won't. He shoots them a smile that's half sincere gratitude and half bland politeness, and nods as they wrap him in their arms and murmur condolences low in his ear. Even Cerb picks up on the oppressive emotional atmosphere because all the normally high-strung dog does is crawl into his lap and lay his head on Clay's shoulder. Clay buries his face into the sweet-smelling fur and breathes deep. 

XXXX 

Days pass in a sort of a blur, and later Clay won't be able to remember much of them at all. Surprisingly, his father did have a will, with every material asset left to Clay himself. When the neatly put-together lawyer informs him of this, Clay nearly falls out of his chair, mouth dropping open. It makes sense in a way but also doesn't because there was little love lost between father and son. An overriding facet of Clay's life had always been Ash's not-so-secret hatred of him because Clay took away the thing Ash loved most.

( _ Hard to have postpartum depression without the 'partum.') _

__ The team helps as best as possible, in whatever way they can. Lisa makes sure his fridge is stocked with plenty of food, while Sonny makes sure he's never short of alcohol. (Clay can't tell if his life goal is for Clay to get alcohol poisoning or not.) Brock lets him borrow Cerb whenever he'd like, for as long as he'd like, and he, without meaning to, ends up explaining the whole of his and Ash's messy, twisted, complicated relationship to the Malonis. It becomes an outlet he never would've guessed would work, to verbalize the fact that he's shocked to be so damn grief-stricken over the death of someone he'd spent half his life resenting the fuck out of. Among other things. 

Blackburn interfaces with the powers-that-be, and ensures that Bravo's missions get shuffled off onto other teams, at least until after the funeral. He also assists Clay in sorting out his bereavement leave and pay, a facet of his benefits that Clay never anticipated using but is so damn grateful for now. It's just one less thing he has to stress and lose sleep over.

Jason and Ray remain steadfast throughout the whole ordeal and help him sort through and make sense of all the administrative details. There are his father's publishers to contend with; closing out his house and getting it ready to sell; coping with the sudden influx of press being sent his way because every fucking newspaper and magazine want a quote, want the inside scoop on how the son of a disgraced SEAL, now a SEAL himself, feels now that his daddy's passed away. 

The funeral is a bit of a circus, and Clay spends the entire time feeling numb and a little bit distant like he's watching his body from some remote place. More people than he would've expected come, but probably not as many as Ash would've liked. Clay gets a sudden, bitter sort of satisfaction in that before he's overcome with a wave of guilt so strong he nearly folds under the weight. 

He fumbles his way through the eulogy, words coming out hesitant and jumbled. Half the audience probably assumes he's drunk, and God does he wish he was, but Jason had been firm in his pronouncement that Clay wasn't to consume a drop of alcohol. (Sonny had tried to sneak a flask in, been promptly ratted out by Mandy, and gotten banned from Clay's apartment for a whole day.) Clay had wanted to hate Jason for that but didn't. 

At the burial is where he hits a wall because he finds himself feeling just a little bit lost. His whole life, one constant had been his struggle with his dad, and now that's just.... _ gone.  _ From the minute he leaves behind a flat gray stone and an evergreen wreath, his whole life will look different, and he's not sure how to cope with the enormity of that. It's a little like trying to carry Everest, and even after the casket's lowered Clay finds himself hesitating, caught between the desire to run away as fast as he can, and stay here until he's dead too. 

He can't deny that at that moment, he's just a little boy who wants his daddy.

Jason's hand squeezes his shoulder, and through a flood of tears, he nods and somehow finds the strength to walk away, out through the cast iron gates and to the awaiting car. He leaves the dead behind to rest; it's the least they deserve, after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and don't forget to drop any comments, questions, or concerns down below!


End file.
